


Accursed Heat

by Nightmist



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Just pure smutty silliness, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25683928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmist/pseuds/Nightmist
Summary: Set some time vaguely in late ARR, before the Bloody Banquet. The Warrior of Light becomes aware of a little personal physical problem she needs help solving and goes to find someone who can help her. Purely professionally, of course.
Relationships: Ilberd Feare/Warrior of Light
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29
Collections: Heat Wave





	Accursed Heat

**Author's Note:**

> I know who I blame for this.
> 
> (Mostly I blame me. The idea is cursed, but once I had it, I sure couldn't get rid of it until I wrote it out. x.x I ask no forgiveness; it is not earned.)

It starts like it always does, with a restlessness that disrupts her sleep and leaves her pacing the halls at night, skin awakening in a slow tingle that always reminds her somehow of the flowers anticipating the brief and heavy summer rains. After all, normally, she does not have the time to bother with trifles of the body, but wait too long and heat will find you, as her mother always said. So it had, and so she must act.

The question is with who. Flesh knows what it wants, and it when it comes to the wild hormonal flush and eventual mindless desperation of heat, what it wants is never less than the best she can find. Not a sensitive soul or a gentle wit; instinct demands _power_ , demands a fighter, demands someone she can picture handling her wild and panting and snarling. Most of the other Scions she discards offhand; never mind the awkwardness of revealing her state to those virtually her family, but the only one whose muscles make her blood sing is Thancred and he has had a hard enough time lately that asking him to tumble her for purely practical reasons seems oddly cruel. 

Which means turning her gaze to the rest of those that clatter around Mor Dhona and the Rising Stones. For example, Alphinaud's shiny, brightly uniformed Crystal Braves, in their brilliant blue and fighter's attire. Among them, at least one has potential. Thus, set in her goal, she goes seeking to find the form of the leader of their day to day operations at the bar.

Taking the next stool over, she waits til the man acknowledges her, a slight nod of greeting. "There's a matter I'd wish to ask for your help with."

Ilberd sweeps his cool gaze from her head to toes, respectful but cautious. "Professional, or personal?"

She can't help the slightly dry laugh that tumbles from her parched lips. "Definitely personal. I know where you're from. You have to have heard the stories about Seekers and their seasons, right?"

For a few breaths, Ilberd stares at her, eyes slightly wide in shock, then they narrow cautiously. "And why would you pick me for such a proposition, Warrior?"

"Well. You are an attractive man. Competent. Capable. Powerful. And you seem like too much of a realist to assume that just because I let you swive me silly, I'll love you in the morning. Too many make that mistake."

Ilberd grunted and tossed back his shot. She considers him from the corner of her eyes, waiting, and perhaps admiring his profile while she did; he _was_ terribly attractive, she thought. A strong profile, bold, with those blue-grey eyes like tempered steel, a mouth wide enough to show emotion in sensuous strength. His body was just as good; tall, muscled, showing hints from what she's seen of scarring from a life full of battles, but that only made it sweeter. Driven, intelligent, practical, and powerful. A combination that made her nerves start to sing in sweet anticipation, an incessant, low level hum that made every ilm of her electric and alert. 

After a moment of thought, the Hyur nods, and offers her a hand, smirking. She lays hers within, skin even darker than his own aged bronze, and slips from the barstool, grateful once again that she's at least tall enough to be notable among her people, so the difference isn't quite so vast. It's still enough that the low-grade throbbing ache of her heat lures her into thoughts of contrast and how pleasing _filling_ the larger form of one of the other races ought to be. "I hear you've got one of the nicer rooms here. Might be a nice thing to show a fella you wanted to spend some quality time with." 

She can't help but laugh at that, leading the way through the higher-level hallways. "You might be disappointed." A key fit into a lock — at least privacy was given to be taken seriously here, along with security, now — and she tosses back the door long enough to lead him into her own room. It is nice, but really only because of the view; high enough up to showcase the stars and the eerie glow of the crystals studding the landscape. Big enough windows for a good breeze if the wind is blowing, too. Right now, though, while Ilberd might be looking at the view, she's more interested in looking at _him_.

Starting with details like planning how to undo all the buttons on that dashing blue coat. As the door shuts, she clicks the lock shut, then all but _pounces_ as she tosses her arms up and around the Captain's shoulders. "I promise, I can be a lot nicer to look at than all that…" A rather dark chuckle slips from his lips as he leans in and down, mouth pressing to hers.

The kiss isn't tender or loving or even all that personal; that's just fine, she's not looking for any of those. What it _is_ is demanding and full of the press of firm teeth, hard fingers digging dents into the full curves of her ass as Ilberd pulls her up onto her tiptoes to be easier to reach. Hot breath melds into her own, mouth marking bruising kisses, and she nips back hard in return, leaves a scrape over dark, sensuous lips with a careless fang. The pale haired man groans to feel it and slams her back against the door, using the leverage to pull her up further, til she can lock legs around the small of his back. Hotly, his focus drops to her neck, peppers it in quick, stinging bites soothed between by wet kisses.

With the pressure between, the friction of her back against the door, and his hands supporting her, she can turn her own hands now to undoing those buttons like she's longed to, the slide and pop free of each one remarkably satisfying as the coat starts to hang more and more loosely on Ilberd's shoulders. The discovery there's a shirt under it, while it should have been expected, is irksome all the same and she rattles off a low growl before roughly dragging the fabric from free his waist band, shoving hands beneath to drag nails along skin the color of the rocks of their homeland. Pushing higher, she pets through curls of iron grey and silver, til she finds the nub of nipples and teases them with circling fingers.

"Minx." Ilberd murmurs the word almost offhand as he groans in pleasure, a deep and resonant sound. It's amplified, then fades as he finds the edge of one of her furred ears, biting down on it and tugging. It's enough to make her squirm, make her face flush with heat, and she responds with a harder press and tug, using her nails more now. Ilberd's already narrow eyes tighten further and he leans back slightly to look over the room. There's not much there; her bed, a dresser, two chairs and a small table. Really, she imagines all he was really seeking was for the bed.

Sure enough, she finds herself all but tossed onto it, sprawling on her back and watching Ilberd's bun move with him as he stalks closer. His coat is abandoned en route, the shirt too, and in her eagerness, she is more than willing to rip her own clothing as well, the little they've done so far more than enough that it seems like she's prickling with fireworks of sensation at every drag of fabric on flesh, that she can feel lines of flame lingering with the fall of his eyes on full breasts and the scarred muscles of her torso. She reaches, and he's upon her, filling his hands with the soft flesh of her breasts, hands firm and just harsh enough in texture to make the arousal more, the lightest scraping from a fighter's calluses as he squeezes. Her back arches sharply, pushing her forward as if in presentation.

Another low chuckle, Ilberd's gaze hooded as he leans back on one elbow for a moment, observing her. "Damn, you really are just _starving_ for it, aren't you, girl?" Embarrassing but true, so she's quick to look away and nod both. One of his hands falls to her waistband and the man grins, slow and wicked, flashing white teeth. "Oh, no, I want you to say it before I take these off. What do you want, girl?"

Hissing at the teasing pause, her tail lashing behind her, she is quick to answer all the same. "As you damn well know, I want you to _fuck_ me until I can't do anything but take it." 

Ilberd laughs again, and she might find that upsetting another time, but right now, she figures he can do anything he wants so long as she's going to get what _she_ needs too, and his hands are curling into the waistband of her pants and pulling them down, and she's wriggling to try and help get them off faster. One of his hands lingers to loosen his own belt even as the other strokes a slow pathway down her belly. Lower, even, over the close-trimmed curls of her mound, curling in now to pet between her thighs.

"Damn, girl, I heard these heats make you needier, but I think there's enough of a flood to drown Mor Dhona here." It's a taunt, but appreciative, hardy fingers strumming along her folds, picking up the slick that's painted itself there and partway down her thighs, every movement causing tiny lurid wet sounds her ears perk to hear. He continues to stroke, up and down in a lazy drag, parting her just enough for partial grazing of the throb at her core, of the close wound spark of levin where lips meet, faint touches that make her keen yearningly for more, for better, for a deeper touch. 

Nails return to his shoulders, drag furrows as she tries to pull him closer, growling needily. Her teeth leave indents around his nipples as he strokes more firmly, spreads her wetness widely, first over her, then his own length, moving up to kneel firmly between her legs. For a second, his hand tugs at her hair, the Captain muttering exasperatedly, "Hold _still_ a moment, girl, if you really want fucked that badly." He lifts her hips, legs curling around his waist first, then presses into her, ripples of heat like the sun shining off the desert sands at midday radiating out through her in the wake of every little motion, til her skin feels as if it could sear with a touch.

He hooks her legs up over his shoulders, pushing them back towards her as he drives in and down, pinioning her beneath him. With the strength and size of his body, his hands splayed on the mattress to either side of her head, she is helpless to do anything but _take it_ , take the wonderful, aching burn of him stretching out her needy heat around him, the exquisite sensations of fullness and and pressure as he presses her into the mattress with the sheer force by which he _fucks_. That's the word for it, nothing softer and gentler; he is there to _fuck_ , to rut, to take her desperate need and let it borrow her body for his pleasure. Right now? That fact feels _amazing_.

To the wild haze of fire and lightning that tickles her body, makes her skin rise in goosebumps, every deliberate, steady thrust is an excuse to grow higher. She feels like she's a storm contained in flesh, a wildfire tearing through the landscape of her feeble body. Every drag within is as intensely capable of blurring her vision as usually only the initial opening and thrust home are. Instead, now, every shift is like the world anew, rebuilt in pleasure and effervescent sensation. Head pressed back against the pillows, her mouth hangs open, and she pants, gasps, whimpers, pleads, makes every shameless, begging, pleading little sound she can think of.

The first orgasm cracks her open and shatters her like a cataclysm; it is only her mind that splinters to a million brilliant faceted pieces, a single temporary eternity of light and heat and violent trembling. Distantly, she hears Ilberd's groan, low and satisfied, and the angle of hips changes slightly, makes the root of him drag more over the spot where her folds meet and the fuse of her ecstasy lies. It's not enough, but more and more come in an extended assault, a repeated dissolution of pure animal ecstasy and release that sweeps over her in withering waves of sensation until she is wrung and weak, sweat-slicked and panting in exhaustion, the relentless core of demand in her finally sated into relaxation and calm. 

When she is spent and useless, only then does Ilberd pursue his own finish, face as determined as a gladiator on the Blood Sands as he slams into her. Her head lolls, almost dreamy in the soft waves of aftermath and when he snarls and hilts for his climax, she lets out a wistful little sigh. A moment later, he pulls back and out, one hand scraping sweat away from where it heavily dapples his dark sin. "I think, Warrior, that your little _problem_ looks well solved."

Weary and exhausted, she makes a faint sound of acknowledgement, muscles far too weak from all that pleasure to try and move. Ilberd laughs, almost cocky, and in a motion that is, if not precisely fond, at least respectful, he drapes the sheet over her as he redresses himself. Enough cover that when he leaves out the door with no further words, she just nestles down into her own bed, breathing in the scents of sex and sweat and semen, satisfied that for this season, at least, her heat has been sated.

**Author's Note:**

> Please join for debauchery and delight at [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/2w2gtaN).  
> 


End file.
